She was excited to be given a present.

First dates don't often command that kind of generosity- and though she'd expected him to be a picayune off-the-wall, the neatly wrapped box, 8 by 8 cm, sat on the mesa between them in the bar where they'd met. It was covered in scratchy paper and, it had a pocket-sized bow on it.

They'd been chatting for 24-hour interval. Not long as far as history's greatest romance go, but there'd been something about the back and forth of the exchange which had piqued her interest group. Not quite arrogance.

OK, arrogance. A variety of brusque, charming offhanded style that on one day left her wondering exactly how a lot he'd wanted her, then the next day was intense, take, keen and irritatingly close to the truth, when he'd asked her questions about herself.

Always close to the bone. Precise. Incisive. Rude.

‘ I'm not telling you ’, came the answer when she asked, understandably enough, what was inside.

‘ But here's the affair ’, he continued. ‘ You can pass on it wrapped, and take it home with you. But : I promise ; I promise you, you will never use it with me. Ever.'

‘ Or, you can open it here at the tabular array, read the instructions, and we'll use it together, when you're quick. But then you need to spread it here .'

'Understand ?'

He smiles.

She bites her lip, optic : down.

‘ No ? You don't want it ?'

He goes to grab the neat piece of ground. She moves nimble than him and pussy it, instinctively ; a stab of resentment at the small remnant of his smile flicker-sneering over his eyes.

‘ You do. OK.'

‘ So. Decide. What's it to be ? give it here ? Or never with me ?'

number one date.

It's. A. showtime. Fucking. Date.

Ultimatums ?

Every osseous tissue in her body is aching to just get up and pull up stakes, and let him sit on his own, with his smug fucking face slowly realising that his biz's backfired.

roll in the hay. arrogance doesn't even begin to cover it.

And yet.

He looks tranquil. Laconic, even. He's not even shifted in his hot seat. Sipping wine. Eyes : assessing.

She moves the box closer.

What could be so fucking shameful that she'd need to make this form of conclusion, now ?

She rips off the paper. The waiting staff seem at once to loom over her, and early buffet car appear to receive turned themselves to see. The hush in the restaurant becomes deafening.

But of course nobody attention. They're all wrapped up in their own lives to attend at a moderately woman, opening a box.

The box is leather, dark-skinned blue. A clasp closes it with a single brass clitoris. It makes a trenchant pop as she presses it clear with her thumb.

The message is obscured by a small piece of paper, which she moves out of the way, to reveal a bullet-shaped plug. Chrome. About 4cm extensive at the wide-cut share, and shaped like a teardrop, extending to a coruscate jewel at the former end.

She immediately snaps the box shut.

rakehell flush, involuntarily and inexorably to her cheek. She can feel the burning sensation spread from her neck, down her bureau, through her gut and stake up her spine.

She can barely talk- someone must have seen- it's a screwing butt hack. In a restaurant. He's got no fucking shame. She realises her optic harbor't moved off the box- and that now her typeface is flushed, and the belittled bead of sweat are forming on her brow.

‘ Don't you like it ?'

She can't aspect at him.

Cunt.

She'd entirely forgotten that he was there at all.

‘ cipher's watching. I promise. Don't you like it ?'

She looks around. He's right.

multitude are oblivious to the psychological warfare going on at the table tucked away in the corner. mates continue their inane small talk. Waiters desperately ignore patronising conversation from idiotic men trying to show they know something about wine to their disinterested dates.

cipher gives a ass that a very somewhat small-arm of jewellery has changed handwriting at the table in the corner. Nobody's looking at the womanhood staring at the board, with her left hand on a small box, and her proper hand holding an even smaller square of white paper.

And then, with a sudden apparent movement, she's stood up, turned, and gone.

Over 45 arcsecond his eyes change from smiling confidence, to crease mix-up. He's pushed her too far.

Fuck.

Always playing these games.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Always pushing his luck, trading her discomfort and plethora for the arousal that he normally judges much, so much serious. annoying creeps over him, and he downs his wine, pays the bill, and starts idly, petulantly casting about the eating house for interesting people to look at.

Nothing. He grabs his phone, and starts purposelessly clicking.

‘ You coming then ?'

He looks up. She looks like a different woman. Tall, with her coating on, his breath taking into custody in his pharynx. Her centre have a asperity to them. A intention. He pauses to guide the image in- her essence now assaulting his brain, and distracting him further. He's been briefly upstaged. Flanked. Blind-sided.

She leans over and susurration into his ear ‘ Get up .'

'Get up off your arse, and determine us a cab in the next 45 instant, or I am going for a drink by myself… ’. With that, she precision-places the small foursquare of theme on the table in front of him, turns, and walks off.

On the newspaper publisher is a greasy vivid-reddish vilification where she's blotted her lips, and a ace give-and-take, written by him : ‘ spit'.